The Ocean
by Kiddle
Summary: Life is just specks of sand on a lonely beach. One Shot - USUK.


Synopsis: Life is just specks of sand on a lonely beach. One Shot - USUK.

…

Sometimes I imagine life as just specks of sand on a lonely beach. The thing about sand is it's warm and vibrant - it finds it so easy to catch the heat of the sun and so easy to move and churn about. So easy in fact, that it can toss about and sooner rather than later, find itself growing closer to the sea. Now, when sand reaches the ocean, something different happens. It darkens in colour, it's less easy to move about and it is no longer warm. When embraced by the cold, distant ocean, sand changes. It becomes disagreeable – harder to move. It becomes damp and dark in consistency, its weight significantly heavier than its previous form. It stays rooted, chained to this ocean, enduring the beating waves, tossing and turning about at every attack that rolls in until finally, it washes away. It's gone. Never to be seen again.

This is how I see life. Tragedy taints you – it stains your innocence, it turns your warm, vibrant yellow into a musky grey. Tragedy continues to beat down on you, destroying you and toying with you until you have no power left to continue. When this happens, you wash away. You give up resisting and just disappear.

Although the cruellest part of life is that no matter how close you get to the waves, no matter how close you are to being defeated, there's always a wind. There is always a wind that can pick you up and take you as far from the ocean as possible. For a while you will still be damp, but soon that moist feeling fades and you're warming up again – living again.

…..

"Suicide is weakness" Alfred concluded, slurping at his coke absentmindedly. "People commit suicide when they are weak and don't want to deal with their problems"

"I don't think it's as simple as that, Alfred" His brother retorted coyly. "Some people just don't feel the need to live anymore. I don't think it has anything to do with weakness or anything like that"

"But why would you not want to live anymore? At least when you're alive you can do all the things you enjoy and achieve something that people will remember you by. When you're dead, you're dead. People forget about you and you mean nothing anymore" The American argued, brushing his hair back with his fingertips, his cowlick jolting up just as his hand smoothed further back. "There is nothing when you die. Nothing."

"Well maybe those people would like it that way!" Matthew had had enough of the conversation. It was a dark topic, and there was no point teaching his brother tolerance, especially since he was so pig headed and could never actually comprehend an opinion differing from his own let alone consider it valid. "I don't understand why you're taking psychology as your major! You could never even begin to understand a _normal_ person, let alone a person with issues as complex as wanting to take their own life!" And with that, Matthew slid out of his corner wall seat and stormed off to his next class.

Alfred continued to slurp his soft drink, completely disregarding his brother's outburst. His opinion still stood. What was the point? What was the point of killing yourself when you're capable of so much happiness and beauty throughout life? Sure, things can get hard sometimes and you may never know how to get out of a certain situation or even learn to cope with it, but there are always other answers to your problems. There are always solutions and there will always be the opportunity to feel happiness once more.

The American's train of thought darkened, returning to a past memory from high school. In school, there was always a boy. He was not particularly handsome, he was not particularly smart, he was not particularly athletic - he was not particularly anything. He was average at sport, average at academics and just… not noticeable. Alfred had never really seen him around, never talked to him, never knew anything about him. Nobody did. Then one day, that boy just died. He just died. One day he was in class, silent as usual. He got off the bus, not a word as usual. Then the next day an assembly was called. All the kids left class and sat in the gym, listening intently to see what was going on. Everyone knew that something wasn't right – it was a feeling present ever since the day began. When everyone had sat down, the principal was lost for words. One of the first things he said was "Does anyone know Bradley Thomas?" The amount of people who raised their hand could be counted on that single hand that they had lifted.

…

Arthur rested his face on his arm, sighing deeply. He was so tired. The Brit recalled his energy from back when he was a child. He would race up and down the stairs, thumping down on the wooden floors, making as much noise as possible. He would prance through the forest outside his parent's house, imagining all these woodland creatures that would welcome him humbly into their enchanted side of the forest. He remembered happiness - a childish, unshakable happiness.

It had been years since he felt this naïve joy. It had come to the point where he did not know if he had ever even felt happiness. The memories could just be a false trick of the mind to persuade him not to go through with his final act. This so called 'final act' being on his twenty-fourth birthday, if he had not experienced a hint of pleasure that did not result from mindless masturbation but actual enjoyment of living, he would end his life. He would be finished.

His time was running out. He would turn twenty-four tomorrow.

The Brit rose from his slouch, rubbing his face and flicking a finger under his nose habitually. He had been sitting in the library for the past four hours, flicking through the same poem as if waiting for another clue to further his analysis of the complex piece. It was a Robert Browning poem and a splendid one at that. Despite his wide range of reading, this particular poem remained his favourite for years. His only regret would be not rereading the masterpiece before his death.

"What're you reading?" A voice asked curiously, quite close to him. He had not noticed, but another figure had been seated in his proximity for some time now. This voice intrigued him. Usually people found him difficult to approach – usually people found anyone they had not yet met before difficult to approach, the only exception being in social situations like parties and such, which this indeed was not. It was a library - a place where people were expected to remain silent.

Arthur opened his mouth, formulating a reply at what would be considered to any extravert as a snail pace. "P-Poetry" He murmured under his breath. He did not realise, but this was the first occasion in which he had been willingly spoken to for a long time, and his voice was rather raspy as a result of this.

"Excuse me? You'll have to speak up a bit. I'm a country boy and being around all that machinery can mess up your hearing" Already, the source of the voice was moving closer to him. He could hear the squeak of a chair being moved by his side and the fragrance of an alien figure situated next to him. It was musky and earthly, the scent of life.

Arthur could not bear to look; his anxiety was steadily rising at the unexpected communication that he was being subjected to. The Brit could already feel his hands start to become clammy and slippery. Blood began to rise to his cheeks and beads of cold sweat formed at the back of his neck.

"I-I'm reading poetry. 'Porphyria's Lover' by Robert Browning to be precise" Arthur explained, clearing his throat and glancing in the opposite direction. "I-It's a lovely poem. Have you heard of it percha-"At this, his voice cracked awkwardly. The heat continued to rise to his face at his body's sudden betrayal.

Alfred smiled brightly, decidedly ignoring Arthur's discomfort. "It sounds kind of cool. Is it a romantic one?" He leaned his cheek on his hand, watching Arthur intently. He had seen him on multiple occasions when he had come in to study, causing a biting curiosity to mature into something he finally wished to be proactive about. Something about the other caused a feeling of nostalgia which irked him to no end. It was a dangerous hunch, an ill foreboding. Alfred also wondered about what type of person he was and all the little habits he noticed of the other over the course of his stay at university. He noticed how the man rubbed his nose routinely and on occasion, lifted his leg slightly; causing it to vibrate which in turn triggered a calming thumping noise such as the noise of a rabbit on the carpet floor. Alfred wondered what sort of book would cause a person to be so absorbed within that particular story. He himself had only experienced that endless fascination with a game called 'World of Warcraft', nothing had enraptured him so much ever since.

"Well," Arthur thought for a moment, tucking his pencil behind his ear. Since he was engaged in a topic more his speed, his original discomfort lessened and he felt more at ease. "You could say that. It depends on how you view love, really. Some people see it as sunshine and roses; others don't quite see it in that light."

"I don't think love is that complicated. Love is a feeling between a man and a woman. That's it" Alfred contributed, examining Arthur up and down. Now that he was closer to the other, he could view him more intently than before. He was scrawny and unkempt with ruffled ash blonde hair. His jaw did not host a single blade of hair; it was unlikely that he would ever be able to maintain a beard or even stubble seeing as it appeared he was already well past puberty. It was as if all the hair which should have been dedicated to his face sprouted on his thick, shabby eyebrows. His complexion was like snow, pale and neglected by the light of the sun. All in all, he seemed very fragile – as if a single gust of wind would just blow him away, never to be seen again. "It's just that feeling where you decide you want to settle down and marry them and have children and the like"

"What about men who love other men? They can't settle down and have children – they can't even marry" Arthur scoffed, furrowing his brows. "It's ignorant to just assign feelings to things they conventionally go with; feelings are a lot more complicated than that" Arthur still refused to look towards Alfred, in case his resolve would melt under the pressure of debating with an anonymous human being.

"What's the point of loving a man? Nothing comes out of it. You can't have children… you can't leave anything behind." Alfred argued, pushing his glasses up his nose. He had noticed that the more he continued, the more the Brit shook from annoyance. For some sick reason, he had begun to love egging this man on. He enjoyed taunting this poor stranger.

Soon, Arthur could not help but turn to his adversary. "Well maybe for some people it's worth it. Maybe it's worth it to sacrifice the chance to have children and marry, just so that you can be with someone you truly want to be with. What is the point of living if you can't be with someone who makes you happy?" The two made eye contact for the first time since talking, causing a jolt to rise in the both of them. Arthur's mouth opened and closed like that of a fish, his whole face deepening to a lush crimson from embarrassment. "T-T-That is… I'm not gay or anything! I'm just providing a point"

Alfred was at a loss of what to say. That glance had completely erased all of his following arguments. Hell, he had forgotten what they were previously arguing about. For the first time in a while he was completely taken off guard. Now he finally understood how his brother felt when he brought up sensitive issues like this. The only thing racing through his mind was the bright, green eyes that had looked at him with so much resolve. "I'm Alfred" He introduced, biting his lip and staring past the other's face.

Arthur cast his view aside, furrowing his brows and focusing back on his book. "Arthur" He mumbled, flicking back through 'Porphyria's Lover'. He glanced towards the other, noticing the small, tender smile lighting his countenance before he focused back on the poem. "Now, do you want me to read it or not?

For the first time in his life, the wind had pushed him out from the reaches of the waves and back into the embrace of the glittering, shining, yellow sun.


End file.
